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THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 



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THE MYSTERY OF LIFE 

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Lecture Delivered in the Theatre of the Royal Col- 
lege of Science, Dublin, 1868 



WHEN I accepted the privilege of ad- 
dressing you to-day, I was not aware 
of a restriction with respect to the 
topics of discussion which may be brought before 
this Society 1 — a restriction which, though entirely 
wise and right under the circumstances contem- 
plated in its introduction, would necessarily have 
disabled me, thinking as I think, from preparing 
any lecture for you on the subject of art in a 
form which might be permanently useful. Par- 
don me, therefore, in so far as I must transgress 
such limitation; for indeed my infringement will 
be of the letter — not of the spirit — of your com- 
mands. In whatever I may say touching the re- 
ligion which has been the foundation of art, or the 
policy which has contributed to its power, if I 
offend one, I shall offend all; for I shall take no 
note of any separations in creeds, or antagonisms 
in parties : neither do I fear that ultimately I shall 
offend any, by proving — or at least stating as 
capable of positive proof — the connection of all 
that is best in the crafts and arts of man, with the 

1 That no reference should be made to religious questions. 
[5] 



The Mystery of Life 

simplicity of his faith, and the sincerity of his 
patriotism. 

But I speak to you under another disadvantage, 
by which I am checked in frankness of utterance, 
not here only, but everywhere; namely, that I am 
never fully aware how far my audiences are dis- 
posed to give me credit for real knowledge of my 
subject, or how far they grant me attention only 
because I have been sometimes thought an ingen- 
ious or pleasant essayist upon it. For I have had 
what, in many respects, I boldly call the mis- 
fortune, to set my words sometimes prettily to- 
gether; not without a foolish vanity in the poor 
knack that I had of doing so; until I was heavily 
punished for this pride, by finding that many peo- 
ple thought of the words only, and cared nothing 
for their meaning. Happily, therefore, the power 
of using such pleasant language — if indeed it ever 
were mine — is passing away from me; and what- 
ever I am now able to say at all, I find my- 
self forced to say with great plainness. For my 
thoughts have changed also, as my words have; 
and whereas in earlier life, what little influence I 
obtained was due perhaps chiefly to the enthusi- 
asm with which I was able to dwell on the beauty 
of the physical clouds, and of their colours in the 
sky; so all the influence I now desire to retain 
must be due to the earnestness with which I am en- 
deavouring to trace the form and beauty of another 
kind of cloud than those ; the bright cloud, of which 
it is written — 

" What is your life? It is even as a vapour that 
appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth 
away." 

[6] 



The Mystery of Life 

I suppose few people reach the middle or latter 
period of their age, without having, at some mo- 
ment of change or disappointment, felt the truth 
of those bitter words, and been startled by the 
fading of the sunshine from the cloud of their life, 
into the sudden agony of the knowledge that the 
fabric of it was as fragile as a dream, and the 
endurance of it as transient as the dew. But it 
is not always that, even at such times as melancholy 
surprise, we can enter into any true perception 
that this human life shares, in the nature of it, not 
only the evanescence, but the mystery of the cloud ; 
that its avenues are wreathed in darkness, and its 
forms and courses no less fantastic, than spectral 
and obscure; so that not only in the vanity which 
we cannot grasp, but in the shadow which we 
cannot pierce, it is true of this cloudy life of ours, 
that " man walketh in a vain shadow, and dis- 
quieteth himself in vain." 

And least of all, whatever may have been the 
eagerness of our passions, or the height of our 
pride, are we able to understand in its depth the 
third and most solemn character in which our life 
is like those clouds of heaven; that to it belongs 
not only their transience, not only their mystery, 
but also their power; that in the cloud of the hu- 
man soul there is a fire stronger than the lightning, 
and a grace more precious than the rain; and that 
though of the good and evil it shall one day be 
said alike, that the place that knew them knows 
them no more, there is an infinite separation be- 
tween those whose brief presence had there been 
a blessing, like the mist of Eden that went up 
from the earth to water the garden, and those 

[7] 



The Mystery of Life 

whose place knew them only as a drifting and 
changeful shade, of whom the heavenly sentence 
is, that they are "wells without water; clouds that 
are carried with a tempest, to whom the mist of 
darkness is reserved for ever?" 

To those among us, however, who have lived long 
enough to form some just estimate of the rate of 
the changes which are, hour by hour in accelerating 
catastrophe, manifesting themselves in the laws, 
the arts, and the creeds of men, it seems to me, 
that now at least, if never at any former time, the 
thoughts of the true nature of our life, and of its 
powers and responsibilities, should present them- 
selves with absolute sadness and sternness. 

And although I know that this feeling is much 
deepened in my own mind by disappointment, 
which, by chance, has attended the greater number 
of my cherished purposes, I do not for that reason 
distrust the feeling itself, though I am on my 
guard against an exaggerated degree of it: nay, I 
rather believe that in periods of new effort and 
violent change, disappointment is a wholesome 
medicine; and that in the secret of it, as in the 
twilight so loved by Titian, we may see the 
colours of things with deeper truth than in the 
most dazzling sunshine. And because these truths 
about the works of men, which I want to bring to- 
day before you, are most of them sad ones, though 
at the same time helpful; and because also I be- 
lieve that your kind Irish hearts will answer more 
gladly to the truthful expression of a personal 
feeling, than to the exposition of an abstract prin- 
ciple, I will permit myself so much unreserved 
speaking of my own causes of regret, as may en- 

[8] 



The Mystery of Life 

able you to make just allowance for what, accord- 
ing to your sympathies, you will call either the 
bitterness, or the insight, of a mind which has sur- 
rendered its best hopes, and been foiled in its 
favourite aims. 

I spent the ten strongest years of my life, (from 
twenty to thirty,) in endeavouring to show the ex- 
cellence of the work of the man whom I believed, 
and rightly believed, to be the greatest painter of 
the schools of England since Reynolds. I had then 
perfect faith in the power of every great truth or 
beauty to prevail ultimately, and take its right 
place in usefulness and honour; and I strove to 
bring the painter's work into this due place, while 
the painter was yet alive. But he knew, better 
than I, the uselessness of talking about what peo- 
ple could not see for themselves. He always dis- 
couraged me scornfully, even when he thanked me 
— and he died before even the superficial effect of 
my work was visible. I went on, however, thinking 
I could at least be of use to the public, if not to 
him, in proving his power. My books got talked 
about a little. The prices of modern pictures, gen- 
erally, rose, and I was beginning to take some 
pleasure in a sense of gradual victory, when, fort- 
unately or unfortunately, an opportunity of per- 
fect trial undeceived me at once, and for ever. The 
Trustees of the National Gallery commissioned me 
to arrange the Turner drawings there, and per- 
mitted me to prepare three hundred examples of 
his studies from nature, for exhibition at Ken- 
sington. At Kensington they were and are placed 
for exhibition; but they are not exhibited, for the 
room in which they hang is always empty. 

[9] 



The Mystery of Life 

Well — this showed me at once, that those ten 
years of my life had been, in their chief purpose, 
lost. For that, I did not so much care; I had, at 
least, learned my own business thoroughly, and 
should be able, as I fondly supposed, after such a 
lesson, now to use my knowledge with better effect. 
But what I did care for, was the — to me frightful 
— discovery, that the most splendid genius in the 
arts might be permitted by Providence to labour 
and perish uselessly; that in the very fineness of 
it there might be something rendering it invisible 
to ordinary eyes; but, that with this strange ex- 
cellence, faults might be mingled which would be 
as deadly as its virtues were vain; that the glory 
of it was perishable, as well as invisible, and the 
gift and grace of it might be to us, as snow in 
summer, and as rain in harvest. 

That was the first mystery of life to me. But, 
while my best energy was given to the study of 
painting, I had put collateral effort, more prudent, 
if less enthusiastic, into that of architecture; and 
in this I could not complain of meeting with no 
sympathy. Among several personal reasons which 
caused me to desire that I might give this, my 
closing lecture on the subject of art here, in Ire- 
land, one of the chief was, that in reading it, I 
should stand near the beautiful building, — the en- 
gineers' school of your college, — which was the 
first realisation I had the joy to see, of the prin- 
ciples I had, until then, been endeavouring to 
teach; but which alas is now to me no more than 
the richly canopied monument of one of the most 
earnest souls that ever gave itself to the arts, and 
one of my truest and most loving friends, Benja- 

[10] 



The Mystery of Life 

min Woodward. Nor was it here in Ireland only 
that I received the help of Irish sympathy and 
genius. When, to another friend, Sir Thomas 
Deane, with Mr. Woodward, was entrusted the 
building of the museum at Oxford, the best details 
of the work were executed by sculptors who had 
been born and trained here; and the first window 
of the facade of the building, in which was inau- 
gurated the study of natural science in England, 
in true fellowship with literature, was carved from 
my design by an Irish sculptor. 

You may perhaps think that no man ought to 
speak of disappointment, to whom, even in one 
branch of labour, so much success was granted. 
Had Mr. Woodward now been beside me, I had 
not so spoken; but his gentle and passionate spirit 
was cut off from the fulfilment of its purposes, 
and the work we did together is now become vain. 
It may not be so in future; but the architecture we 
endeavoured to introduce is inconsistent alike with 
the reckless luxury, the deforming mechanism, and 
the squalid misery of modern cities; among the 
formative fashions of the day, aided, especially in 
England, by ecclesiastical sentiment, it indeed ob- 
tained notoriety; and sometimes behind an engine 
furnace, or a railroad bank, you may detect the 
pathetic discord of its momentary grace, and, with 
toil, decipher its floral carvings choked with soot. 
I felt answerable to the schools I loved, only for 
their injury. I perceived that this new portion of 
my strength had also been spent in vain; and from 
amidst streets of iron, and palaces of crystal, 
shrank back at last to the carving of the mountain 
and colour of the flower. 

[ii] 



The Mystery of Life 

And still I could tell of failure, and failure re- 
peated as years went on; but I have trespassed 
enough on your patience to show you, in part, the 
causes of my discouragement. Now let me more 
deliberately tell you its results. You know there 
is a tendency in the minds of many men, when they 
are heavily disappointed in the main purposes of 
their life, to feel, and perhaps in warning, perhaps 
in mockery, to declare, that life itself is a vanity. 
Because it has disappointed them, they think its 
nature is of disappointment always, or at best, of 
pleasure that can be grasped by imagination only; 
that the cloud of it has no strength nor fire within ; 
but is a painted cloud only, to be delighted in, yet 
despised. You know how beautifully Pope has ex- 
pressed this particular phase of thought: — 

" Meanwhile opinion gilds, with varying rays, 
These painted clouds that beautify our days ; 
Each want of happiness by hope supplied, 
And each vacuity of sense, by pride. 

** Hope builds as fast as Knowledge can destroy ; 
In Folly's cup, still laughs the bubble joy. 
One pleasure past, another still we gain, 
And not a vanity is given in vain." 

But the effect of failure upon my own mind has 
been just the reverse of this. The more that my 
life disappointed me, the more solemn and wonder- 
ful it became to me. It seemed, contrarily to 
Pope's saying, that the vanity of it was indeed 
given in vain ; but that there was something behind 
the veil of it, which was not vanity. It became 
to me not a painted cloud, but a terrible and im- 
penetrable one: not a mirage, which vanished as I 
[12] 



The Mystery of Life 

drew near, but a pillar of darkness, to which I was 
forbidden to draw near. For I saw that both my 
own failure, and such success in petty things as in 
its poor triumph seemed to me worse than failure, 
came from the want of sufficiently earnest effort 
to understand the whole law and meaning of exist- 
ence, and to bring it to noble and due end; as, on 
the other hand, I saw more and more clearly that 
all enduring success in the arts, or in any other 
occupation, had come from the ruling of lower pur- 
poses, not by a conviction of their nothingness, but 
by a solemn faith in the advancing power of human 
nature, or in the promise, however dimly appre- 
hended, that the mortal part of it would one day 
be swallowed up in immortality; and that, indeed, 
the arts themselves never had reached any vital 
strength or honour but in the effort to proclaim 
this immortality, and in the service either of great 
and just religion, or of some unselfish patriotism, 
and law of such national life as must be the foun- 
dation of religion. 

Nothing that I have ever said is more true or 
necessary — nothing has been more misunderstood 
or misapplied — than my strong assertion, that the 
arts can never be right themselves, unless their 
motive is right. It is misunderstood this way: 
weak painters, who have never learned their busi- 
ness, and cannot lay a true line, continually 
come to me, crying out — "Look at this picture of 
mine; it must be good, I had such a lovely motive. 
I have put my whole heart into it, and taken years 
to think over its treatment." Well, the only 
answer for these people is — if one had the cruelty 
to make it — "Sir, you cannot think over anything 
[13] 



The Mystery of Life 

in any number of years, — you haven't the head to 
do it; and though you had fine motives, strong 
enough to make you burn yourself in a slow fire, 
if only first you could paint a picture, you can't 
paint one, nor half an inch of you; you haven't 
the hand to do it." 

But, far more decisively we have to say to the 
men who do know their business, or may know it 
if they choose — "Sir, you have this gift and a 
mighty one; see that you serve your nation faith- 
fully with it. It is a greater trust than ships and 
armies: you might cast them away, if you were 
their captain, with less treason to your people than 
in casting your own glorious power away, and 
serving the devil with it instead of men. Ships 
and armies you may replace if they are lost, but a 
great intellect, once abused, is a curse to the earth 
for ever." 

This, then, I meant by saying that the arts must 
have noble motive. This also I said respecting 
them, that they never had prospered, nor could 
prosper, but when they had such true purpose, 
and were devoted to the proclamation of divine 
truth or law. And yet I saw also that they had 
always failed in this proclamation — that poetry, 
and sculpture, and painting, though only great 
when they strove to teach us something about the 
gods, never had taught us anything trustworthy 
about the gods, but had always betrayed their trust 
in the crisis of it, and, with their powers at the 
full reach, became ministers to pride and to lust. 
And I felt also, with increasing amazement, the 
unconquerable apathy in ourselves the hearers, no 
less than in these the teachers ; and that, while the 

[14] 



The Mystery of Life 

wisdom and Tightness of every act and art of life 
could only be consistent with a right understanding 
of the ends of life, we were all plunged as in a 
languid dream — our heart fat, and our eyes heavy, 
and our ears closed, lest the inspiration of hand or 
voice should reach us — lest we should see with our 
eyes, and understand with our hearts, and be 
healed. 

This intense apathy in all of us is the first great 
mystery of life; it stands in the way of every per- 
ception, every virtue. There is no making our- 
selves feel enough astonishment at it. That the 
occupations or pastimes of life should have no 
motive, is understandable; but — That life itself 
should have no motive — that we neither care to 
find out what it may lead to, nor to guard against 
its being for ever taken away from us — here is a 
mystery indeed. For, just suppose I were able to 
call at this moment to any one in this audience by 
name, and to tell him positively that I knew a 
large estate had been lately left to him on some 
curious conditions; but that, though I knew it was 
large, I did not know how large, nor even where 
it was — whether in the East Indies or the West, 
or in England, or at the Antipodes. I only knew 
it was a vast estate, and that there was a chance 
of his losing it altogether if he did not soon find 
out on what terms it had been left to him. Sup- 
pose I were able to say this positively to any single 
man in this audience, and he knew that I did not 
speak without warrant, do you think that he would 
rest content with that vague knowledge, if it were 
anywise possible to obtain more? Would he not 
give every energy to find some trace of the facts, 

[15] 



The Mystery of Life 

and never rest till he had ascertained where this 
place was, and what it was like? And suppose he 
were a young man, and all he could discover by his 
best endeavour was, that the estate was never to 
be his at all, unless he persevered, during certain 
years of probation, in an orderly and industrious 
life; but that, according to the rightness of his 
conduct, the portion of the estate assigned to him 
would be greater or less, so that it literally de- 
pended on his behaviour from day to day whether 
he got ten thousand a year, or thirty thousand a 
year, or nothing whatever — would you not think it 
strange if the youth never troubled himself to sat- 
isfy the conditions in any way, nor even to know 
what was required of him, but lived exactly as he 
chose, and never inquired whether his chances of 
the estate were increasing or passing away? Well, 
you know that this is actually and literally so with 
the greater number of the educated persons now 
living in Christian countries. Nearly every man 
and woman, in any company such as this, out- 
wardly professes to believe — and a large number 
unquestionably think they believe — much more 
than this; not only that a quite unlimited estate 
is in prospect for them if they please the Holder 
of it, but that the infinite contrary of such a pos- 
session — an estate of perpetual misery, is in store 
for them if they displease this great Land-Holder, 
this great Heaven-Holder. And yet there is not 
one in a thousand of these human souls that cares 
to think, for ten minutes of the day, where this 
estate is, or how beautiful it is, or what kind of 
life they are to lead in it, or what kind of life 
they must lead to obtain it. 

[16] 



The Mystery of Life 

You fancy that you care to know this: so little 
do you care that, probably, at this moment many 
of you are displeased with me for talking of the 
matter! You came to hear about the Art of this 
world, not about the Life of the next, and you are 
provoked with me for talking of what you can 
hear any Sunday in church. But do not be afraid. 
I will tell you something before you go about pict- 
ures, and carvings, and pottery, and what else you 
would like better to hear of than the other world. 
Nay, perhaps you say, "We want you to talk of 
pictures and pottery, because we are sure that you 
know something of them, and you know nothing 
of the other world." Well — I don't. That is quite 
true. But the very strangeness and mystery of 
which I urge you to take notice is in this — that I 
do not; — nor you either. Can you answer a single 
bold question unflinchingly about that other world 
— Are you sure there is a heaven? Sure there is a 
hell? Sure that men are dropping before your 
faces through the pavements of these streets into 
eternal fire, or sure that they are not? Sure that 
at your own death you are going to be delivered 
from all sorrow, to be endowed with all virtue, to 
be gifted with all felicity, and raised into perpet- 
ual companionship with a King, compared to whom 
the kings of the earth are as grasshoppers, and the 
nations as the dust of His feet? Are you sure of 
this? or, if not sure, do any of us so much as care 
to make it sure? and, if not, how can anything 
that we do be right — how can anything we think 
be wise; what honour can there be in the arts that 
amuse us, or what profit in the possessions that 
please ? 

[17] 



The Mystery of Life 

Is not this a mystery of life? 

But farther, you may, perhaps, think it a benefi- 
cent ordinance for the generality of men that they 
do not, with earnestness or anxiety, dwell on such 
questions of the future ; because the business of the 
day could not be done if this kind of thought were 
taken by all of us for the morrow. Be it so: but at 
least we might anticipate that the greatest and 
wisest of us, who were evidently the appointed 
teachers of the rest, would set themselves apart to 
seek out whatever could be surely known of the 
future destinies of their race; and to teach this 
in no rhetorical or ambiguous manner, but in the 
plainest and most severely earnest words. 

Now, the highest representatives of men who 
have thus endeavoured, during the Christian era, 
to search out these deep things, and relate them, 
are Dante and Milton. There are none who for 
earnestness of thought, for mastery of word, can 
be classed with these. I am not at present, mind 
you, speaking of persons set apart in any priestly 
or pastoral office, to deliver creeds to us, or doc- 
trines; but of men who try to discover and set 
forth, as far as by human intellect is possible, the 
facts of the other world. Divines may perhaps 
teach us how to arrive there, but only these two 
poets have in any powerful manner striven to dis- 
cover, or in any definite words professed to tell, 
what we shall see and become there: or how those 
upper and nether worlds are, and have been, in- 
habited. 

And what have they told us? Milton's account 
of the most important event in his whole system of 
the universe, the fall of the angels, is evidently 
[18] 



The Mystery of Life 

unbelievable to himself; and the more so, that it 
is wholly founded on, and in a great part spoiled 
and degraded from, Hesiod's account of the de- 
cisive war of the younger gods with the Titans. 
The rest of his poem is a picturesque drama, in 
which every artifice of invention is visibly and con- 
sciously employed, not a single fact being, for an 
instant, conceived as tenable by any living faith. 
Dante's conception is far more intense, and, by 
himself, for the time, not to be escaped from; it 
is indeed a vision, but a vision only, and that one 
of the wildest that ever entranced a soul — a dream 
in which every grotesque type or phantasy of 
heathen tradition is renewed, and adorned ; and the 
destinies of the Christian Church, under their most 
sacred symbols, become literally subordinate to the 
praise, and are only to be understood by the aid, 
of one dear Florentine maiden. 

I tell you truly that, as I strive more with this 
strange lethargy and trance in myself, and awake 
to the meaning and power of life, it seems daily 
more amazing to me that men such as these should 
dare to play with the most precious truths (or the 
most deadly untruths), by which the whole human 
race listening to them could be informed, or de- 
ceived; — all the world their audiences for ever, 
with pleased ear, and passionate heart; — and yet, 
to this submissive infinitude of souls, and evermore 
succeeding and succeeding multitude, hungry for 
bread of life, they do but play upon sweetly modu- 
lated pipes; with pompous nomenclature adorn the 
councils of hell; touch a troubador's guitar to the 
courses of the sun; and fill the openings of eter- 
nity, before which prophets have veiled their faces, 

[19] 



The Mystery of Life 

and which angels desire to look into, with idle 
puppets of their scholastic imagination, and melan- 
choly lights of frantic faith in their lost mortal 
love. 

Is not this a mystery of life? 

But more. We have to remember that these two 
great teachers were both of them warped in their 
temper, and thwarted in their search for truth. 
They were men of intellectual war, unable, through 
darkness of controversy, or stress of personal 
grief, to discern where their own ambition modified 
their utterances of the moral law; or their own 
agony mingled with their anger at its violation. 
But greater men than these have been — innocent- 
hearted — too great for contest. Men, like Homer 
and Shakespeare, of so unrecognised personality, 
that it disappears in future ages, and becomes 
ghostly, like the tradition of a lost heathen god. 
Men, therefore, to whose unoifended, uncondemn- 
ing sight, the whole of human nature reveals itself 
in a pathetic weakness, with which they will not 
strive; or in mournful and transitory strength, 
which they dare not praise. And all Pagan and 
Christian civilisation thus becomes subject to them. 
It does not matter how little, or how much, any 
of us have read, either of Homer or Shakespeare: 
everything round us, in substance, or in thought, 
has been moulded by them. All Greek gentlemen 
were educated under Homer. All Roman gentle- 
men, by Greek literature. All Italian, and French, 
and English gentlemen, by Roman literature, and 
by its principles. Of the scope of Shakespeare, I 
will say only, that the intellectual measure of every 
man since born, in the domains of creative thought, 
[20] 



The Mystery of Life 

may be assigned to him, according to the degree 
in which he has been taught by Shakespeare. Well, 
what do these two men, centres of moral intelli- 
gence, deliver to us of conviction respecting what 
it most behoves that intelligence to grasp? What 
is their hope; their crown of rejoicing? what man- 
ner of exhortation have they for us, or of rebuke? 
what lies next their own hearts, and dictates their 
undying words? Have they any peace to promise 
to our unrest — any redemption to our misery? 

Take Homer first, and think if there is any 
sadder image of human fate than the great 
Homeric story. The main features in the char- 
acter of Achilles are its intense desire of justice, 
and its tenderness of affection. And in that bitter 
song of the Iliad, this man, though aided contin- 
ually by the wisest of the gods, and burning with 
the desire of justice in his heart, becomes yet, 
through ill-governed passion, the most unjust of 
men: and, full of the deepest tenderness in his 
heart, becomes yet through ill-governed passion, 
the most cruel of men. Intense alike in love and 
in friendship, he loses, first his mistress, and then 
his friend; for the sake of the one, he surrenders 
to death the armies of his own land; for the sake 
of the other, he surrenders all. Will a man lay 
down his life for his friend? Yea — even for his 
dead friend, this Achilles, though goddess-born, 
and goddess-taught, gives up his kingdom, his 
country, and his life — casts alike the innocent and 
guilty, with himself, into one gulf of slaughter, 
and dies at last by the hand of the basest of his 
adversaries. Is not this a mystery of life? 

But what, then, is the message to us of our own 

[si] 



The Mystery of Life 

poet, and searcher of hearts, after fifteen hundred 
years of Christian faith have been numbered over 
the graves of men? Are his words more cheerful 
than the heathen's — is his hope more near — his 
trust more sure — his reading of fate more happy? 
Ah, no! He differs from the heathen poet chiefly 
in this — that he recognises, for deliverance, no 
gods nigh at hand; and that, by petty chance — by 
momentary folly — by broken message — by fool's 
tyranny — or traitor's snare, the strongest and most 
righteous are brought to their ruin, and perish 
without word of hope. He indeed, as part of his 
rendering of character, ascribes the power and 
modesty of habitual devotion, to the gentle and 
the just. The death-bed of Katharine is bright 
with vision of angels; and the great soldier-king, 
standing by his few dead, acknowledges the pres- 
ence of the hand that can save alike by many or 
by few. But observe that from those who with 
deepest spirit, meditate, and with deepest passion, 
mourn, there are no such words as these; nor in 
their hearts are any such consolations. Instead of 
the perpetual sense of the helpful presence of the 
Deity, which, through all heathen tradition, is the 
source of heroic strength, in battle, in exile, and in 
the valley of the shadow of death, we find only in 
the great Christian poet, the consciousness of a 
moral law, through which "the gods are just, and 
of our pleasant vices make instruments to scourge 
us;" and of the resolved arbitration of the des- 
tinies, that conclude into precision of doom what 
we feebly and blindly began; and force us, when 
our indiscretion serves us, and our deepest plots 
do pall, to the confession, that "there's a divinity 
[22] 



The Mystery of Life 

that shapes our ends, rough hew them how we 
will." 

Is not this a mystery of life? 

Be it so then. About this human life that is 
to be, or that is, the wise religious men tell us 
nothing that we can trust ; and the wise contempla- 
tive men, nothing that can give us peace. But 
there is yet a third class, to whom we may turn — 
the wise practical men. We have sat at the feet 
of the poets who sang of heaven, and they have 
told us their dreams. We have listened to the poets 
who sang of earth, and they have chanted to us 
dirges, and words of despair. But there is one 
class of men more: — men, not capable of vision, 
nor sensitive to sorrow, but firm of purpose — prac- 
tised in business: learned in all that can be, (by 
handling, — ) known. Men whose hearts and hopes 
are wholly in this present world, from whom, 
therefore, we may surely learn, at least, how, at 
present, conveniently to live in it. What will they 
say to us, or show us by example? These kings — 
these councillors — these statesmen and builders of 
kingdoms — these capitalists and men of business, 
who weigh the earth, and the dust of it, in a bal- 
ance. They know the world, surely; and what is 
the mystery of life to us, is none to them. They 
can surely show us how to live, while we live, and 
to gather out of the present world what is best. 

I think I can best tell you their answer, by tell- 
ing you a dream I had once. For though I am no 
poet, I have dreams sometimes: — I dreamed I was 
at a child's May-day party, in which every means 
of entertainment had been provided for them, by 
a wise and kind host. It was in a stately house, 
[23] 



The Mystery of Life 

with beautiful gardens attached to it; and the chil- 
dren had been set free in the rooms and gardens, 
with no care whatever but how to pass their after- 
noon rejoicingly. They did not, indeed, know 
much about what was to happen next day; and 
some of them, I thought, were a little frightened, 
because there was a chance of their being sent to 
a new school where there were examinations; but 
they kept the thoughts of that out of their heads 
as well as they could, and resolved to enjoy them- 
selves. The house, I said, was in a beautiful gar- 
den, and in the garden were all kinds of flowers; 
sweet grassy banks for rest; and smooth lawns for 
play; and pleasant streams and woods; and rocky 
places for climbing. And the children were happy 
for a little while, but presently they separated 
themselves into parties; and then each party de- 
clared, it would have a piece of the garden for its 
own, and that none of the others should have any- 
thing to do with that piece. Next, they quarrelled 
violently, which pieces they would have; and at 
last the boys took up the thing, as boys should do, 
"practically," and fought in the flower-beds till 
there was hardly a flower left standing; then they 
trampled down each other's bits of the garden out 
of spite; and the girls cried till they could cry no 
more; and so they all lay down at last breathless 
in the ruin, and waited for the time when they 
were to be taken home in the evening. 1 

Meanwhile, the children in the house had been 

1 1 have sometimes been asked what this means. I in- 
tended it to set forth the wisdom of men in war contending 
for kingdoms, and what follows to set forth their wisdom in 
peace, contending for wealth. 

[24] 



The Mystery of Life 

making themselves happy also in their manner. 
For them, there had been provided every kind of 
in-doors pleasure: there was music for them to 
dance to; and the library was open, with all man- 
ner of amusing books; and there was a museum, 
full of the most curious shells, and animals, andr 
birds; and there was a workshop, with lathes and 
carpenters' tools, for the ingenious boys ; and there 
were pretty fantastic dresses, for the girls to dress 
in; and there were microscopes, and kaleidoscopes; 
and whatever toys a child could fancy ; and a table, 
in the dining-room, loaded with everything nice to 
eat. 

But, in the midst of all this, it struck two or 
three of the more "practical" children, that they 
would like some of the brass-headed nails that 
studded the chairs ; and so they set to work to pull 
them out. Presently, the others, who were reading, 
or looking at shells, took a fancy to do the like; 
and, in a little while, all the children, nearly, were 
spraining their fingers, in pulling out brass-headed 
nails. With all that they could pull out, they were 
not satisfied; and then, everybody wanted some of 
somebody else's. And at last the really practical 
and sensible ones declared, that nothing was of 
any real consequence, that afternoon, except to get 
plenty of brass-headed nails; and that the books, 
and the cakes, and the microscopes were of no use 
at all in themselves, but only, if they could be ex- 
changed for nail-heads. And, at last, they began 
to fight for nail-heads, as the others fought for the 
bits of garden. Only here and there, a despised 
one shrank away into a corner, and tried to get a 
little quiet with a book, in the midst of the noise; 
[25] 



The Mystery of Life 

but all the practical ones thought of nothing else 
but counting nail-heads all the afternoon — even 
though they knew they would not be allowed 
to carry so much as one brass knob away with 
them. But no — it was — "who has most nails? I 
have a hundred and you have fifty; or I have a 
thousand and you have two. I must have as many 
as you before I leave the house., or I cannot pos- 
sibly go home in peace." At last, they made so 
much noise that I awoke, and thought to myself, 
"What a false dream that is, of children." The 
child is the father of the man ; and wiser. Children 
never do such foolish things. Only men do. 

But there is yet one last class of persons to be 
interrogated. The wise religious men we have 
asked in vain; the wise contemplative men, in vain; 
the wise worldly men, in vain. But there is another 
group yet. In the midst of this vanity of empty 
religion — of tragic contemplation — of wrathful 
and wretched ambition, and dispute for dust, there 
is yet one great group of persons, by whom all 
these disputers live — the persons who have deter- 
mined, or have had it by a beneficent Providence 
determined for them, that they will do something 
useful; that whatever may be prepared for them 
hereafter, or happen to them here, they will, at 
least, deserve the food that God gives them by 
winning it honourably; and that, however fallen 
from the purity, or far from the peace, of Eden, 
they will carry out the duty of human dominion, 
though they have lost its felicity; and dress and 
keep the wilderness, though they no more can dress 
or keep the garden. 

These, — hewers of wood, and drawers of water 

[26] 



The Mystery of Life 

— these bent under burdens, or torn of scourges — 
these, that dig and weave — that plant and build; 
workers in wood, and in marble, and in iron — by 
whom all food, clothing, habitation, furniture, and 
means of delight are produced, for themselves, and 
for all men beside; men, whose deeds are good, 
though their words may be few; men, whose lives 
are serviceable, be they never so short, and worthy 
of honour, be they never so humble; — from these, 
surely at least, we may receive some clear message 
of teaching: and pierce, for an instant, into the 
mystery of life, and of its arts. 

Yes; from these, at last, we do receive a lesson. 
But I grieve to say, or rather — for that is the 
deeper truth of the matter — I rejoice to say — this 
message of theirs can only be received by joining 
them — not by thinking about them. 

You sent for me to talk to you of art ; and I have 
obeyed you in coming. But the main thing I have 
to tell you is, — that art must not be talked about. 
The fact that there is talk about it at all, signifies 
that it is ill done, or cannot be done. No true 
painter ever speaks, or ever has spoken, much of 
his art. The greatest speak nothing. Even Reyn- 
olds is no exception, for he wrote all that he 
could not himself do, and was utterly silent re- 
specting all that he himself did. 

The moment a man can really do his work, he 
becomes speechless about it. All words become 
idle to him — all theories. 

Does a bird need to theorise about building its 

nest, or boast of it when built? All good work 

is essentially done that way — without hesitation, 

without difficulty, without boasting; and in the 

[27] 



The Mystery of Life 

doers of the best, there is an inner and involuntary 
power which approximates literally to the instinct 
of an animal — nay, I am certain that in the most 
perfect human artists, reason does not supersede 
instinct, but is added to an instinct as much more 
divine than that of the lower animals as the human 
body is more beautiful than theirs; that a great 
singer sings not with less instinct than the nightin- 
gale, but with more — only more various, appli- 
cable, and governable; that a great architect does 
not build with less instinct than the beaver or the 
bee, but with more — with an innate cunning of 
proportion that embraces all beauty, and a divine 
ingenuity of skill that improvises all construction. 
But be that as it may — be the instinct less or more 
than that of inferior animals — like or unlike theirs, 
still the human art is dependent on that first, and 
then upon an amount of practice, of science, — and 
of imagination disciplined by thought, which the 
true possessor of it knows to be incommunica- 
ble, and the true critic of it, inexplicable, except 
through long process of laborious years. That 
journey of life's conquest, in which hills over hills, 
and Alps on Alps arose, and sank, — do you think 
you can make another trace it painlessly, by talk- 
ing? Why, you cannot even carry us up an Alp, 
by talking. You can guide us up it, step by step, 
no otherwise — even so, best silently. You girls, 
who have been among the hills, know how the bad 
guide chatters and gesticulates, and it is "put your 
foot here," and "mind how you balance yourself 
there;" but the good guide walks on quietly, with- 
out a word, only with his eyes on you when need 
is, and his arm like an iron bar, if need be. 
[28] 



The Mystery of Life 

In that slow way, also, art can be taught — if 
you have f aitli in your guide, and will let his arm 
be to you as an iron bar when need is. But in 
what teacher of art have you such faith ? Certainly 
not in me; for, as I told you at first, I know well 
enough it is only because you think I can talk, not 
because you think I know my business, that you 
let me speak to you at all. If I were to tell you 
anything that seemed to you strange, you would 
not believe it, and yet it would only be in telling you 
strange things that I could be of use to you. I 
could be of great use to you — infinite use, with 
brief saying, if you would believe it ; but you would 
not, just because the thing that would be of real 
use would displease you. You are all wild, for 
instance, with admiration of Gustave Dore. Well, 
suppose I were to tell you in the strongest terms 
I could use, that Gustave D ore's art was bad — 
bad, not in weakness, — not in failure, — but bad 
with dreadful power — the power of the Furies and 
the Harpies mingled, enraging, and polluting; that 
so long as you looked at it, no perception of pure 
or beautiful art was possible for you. Suppose I ; 
were to tell you that! What would be the use?, 
Would you look at Gustave Dore less? Rather 
more, I fancy. On the other hand, I could soon 
put you into good humour with me, if I chose. I 
know well enough what you like, and how to praise 
it to your better liking. I could talk to you about 
moonlight, and twilight, and spring flowers, and 
autumn leaves, and the Madonnas of Raphael — 
how motherly ! and the Sibyls of Michael Angelo — 
how majestic! and the Saints of Angelico — how 
pious ! and the Cherubs of Correggio — how deli- 

[29] 



The Mystery of Life 

cious! Old as I am, I could play you a tune on 
the harp yet, that you would dance to. But neither 
you nor I should be a bit the better or wiser; or, 
if we were, our increased wisdom could be of no 
practical effect. For, indeed, the arts, as regards 
teachableness, differ from the sciences also in this, 
that their power is founded not merely on facts 
which can be communicated, but on dispositions 
which require to be created. Art is neither to be 
achieved by effort of thinking, nor explained by 
accuracy of speaking. It is the instinctive and 
necessary result of powers which can only be de- 
veloped through the mind of successive genera- 
tions, and which finally burst into life under social 
conditions as slow of growth as the faculties they 
regulate. Whole aeras of mighty history are 
summed, and the passions of dead myriads are 
concentrated in the existence of a noble art; and 
if that noble art were among us, we should feel it 
and rejoice; not caring in the least to hear lectures 
on it; and since it is not among us, be assured we 
have to go back to the root of it, or, at least, to 
the place where the stock of it is yet alive, and 
the branches began to die. 

And now, may I have your pardon for pointing 
out, partly with reference to matters which are at 
this time of greater moment than the arts — that 
if we undertook such recession to the vital germ 
of national arts that have decayed, we should find 
a more singular arrest of their power in Ireland 
than in any other European country. For in the 
eighth century, Ireland possessed a school of. art 
in her manuscripts and sculpture, which, in many 
[30] 



The Mystery of Life 

of its qualities — apparently in all essential quali- 
ties of decorative invention — was quite without 
rival; seeming as if it might have advanced to the 
highest triumphs in architecture and in painting. 
But there was one fatal flaw in its nature, by which 
it was stayed, and stayed with a conspicuousness 
of pause to which there is no parallel: so that, 
long ago, in tracing the progress of European 
schools from infancy to strength, I chose for the 
students of Kensington, in a lecture since pub- 
lished, two characteristic examples of early art, of 
equal skill; but in the one case, skill which was 
progressive — in the other, skill which was at pause. 
In the one case, it was work receptive of correc- 
tion — hungry for correction — and in the other, 
work which inherently rejected correction. I 
chose for them a corrigible Eve, and an incorrigi- 
ble Angel, and I grieve to say that the incorrigible 
Angel was also an Irish Angel! 

And the fatal difference lay wholly in this. In 
both pieces of art there was an equal falling short 
of the needs of fact; but the Lombardic Eve knew 
she was in the wrong, and the Irish Angel thought 
himself all right. The eager Lombardic sculptor, 
though firmly insisting on his childish idea, yet 
showed in the irregular broken touches of the feat- 
ures, and the imperfect struggle for softer lines 
in the form, a perception of beauty and law that 
he could not render; there was the strain of effort, 
under conscious imperfection, in every line. But 
the Irish missal-painter had drawn his angel with 
no sense of failure, in happy complacency, and put 
red dots into the palms of each hand, and rounded 
[31] 



The Mystery of Life 

the eyes into perfect circles, and, I regret to say, 
left the mouth out altogether, with perfect satis- 
faction to himself. 

May I without offence ask you to consider 
whether this mode of arrest in ancient Irish art 
may not be indicative of points of character which 
even yet, in some measure, arrest your national 
power? I have seen much of Irish character, and 
have watched it closely, for I have also much loved 
it. And I think the form of failure to which it is 
most liable is this, that being generous-hearted, and 
wholly intending always to do right, it does not 
attend to the external laws of right, but thinks it 
must necessarily do right because it means to do so, 
and therefore does wrong without finding it out: 
and then when the consequences of its wrong come 
upon it, or upon others connected with it, it cannot 
conceive that the wrong is in anywise of its causing 
or of its doing, but flies into wrath, and a strange 
agony of desire for justice, as feeling itself wholly 
innocent, which leads it farther astray, until there 
is nothing that it is not capable of doing with a 
good conscience. 

But mind, I do not mean to say that, in past or 
present relations between Ireland and England, 
you have been wrong, and we right. Far from 
that, I believe that in all great questions of prin- 
ciple, and in all details of administration of law, 
you have been usually right, and we wrong; some- 
times in misunderstanding you, sometimes in reso- 
lute iniquity to you. Nevertheless, in all disputes 
between states, though the strongest is nearly al- 
ways mainly in the wrong, the weaker is often so 
in a minor degree ; and I think we sometimes admit 
[32] 



The Mystery of Life 

the possibility of our being in error, and you never 
do. 

And now, returning to the broader question what 
these arts and labours of life have to teach us of 
its mystery, this is the first of their lessons — that 
the more beautiful the art, the more it is essentially 
the work of people who feel themselves wrong; — 
who are striving for the fulfilment of a law, and 
the grasp of a loveliness, which they have not yet 
attained, which they feel even farther and farther 
from attaining, the more they strive for it. And 
yet, in still deeper sense, it is the work of people 
who know also that they are right. The very sense 
of inevitable error from their purpose marks the 
perfectness of that purpose, and the continued 
sense of failure arises from the continued opening 
of the eyes more clearly to all the sacredest laws 
of truth. 

This is one lesson. The second is a very plain, 
and greatly precious one, namely: — that whenever 
the arts and labours of life are fulfilled in this 
spirit of striving against misrule, and doing what- 
ever we have to do, honourably and perfectly, they 
invariably bring happiness, as much as seems pos- 
sible to the nature of man. In all other paths, by 
which that happiness is pursued, there is disap- 
pointment, or destruction: for ambition and for 
passion there is no rest — no fruition; the fairest 
pleasures of youth perish in a darkness greater 
than their past light; and the loftiest and purest 
love too often does but inflame the cloud of life 
with endless fire of pain. But, ascending from 
lowest to highest, through every scale of human 
industry, that industry worthily followed, gives 

[33] 



The Mystery of Life 

peace. Ask the labourer in the field, at the forge, 
or in the mine; ask the patient, delicate-fingered 
artisan, or the strong-armed, fiery-hearted worker 
in bronze, and in marble, and in the colours of 
light; and none of these, who are true workmen, 
will ever tell you, that they have found the law of 
heaven an unkind one — that in the sweat of their 
face they should eat bread, till they return to the 
ground; nor that they ever found it an unrewarded 
obedience, if, indeed, it was rendered faithfully to 
the command — "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do 
— do it with thy might." 

These are the two great and constant lessons 
which our labourers teach us of the mystery of life. 
But there is another, and a sadder one, which they 
cannot teach us, which we must read on their tomb- 
stones. 

"Do it with thy might." There have been 
myriads upon myriads of human creatures who 
have obeyed this law — who have put every breath 
and nerve of their being into its toil — who have de- 
voted every hour, and exhausted every faculty — 
who have bequeathed their unaccomplished thoughts 
at death — -who being dead, have yet spoken, by 
majesty of memory, and strength of example. And, 
at last, what has all this "Might" of humanity ac- 
complished, in six thousand years of labour and 
sorrow? What has it done? Take the three chief 
occupations and arts of men, one by one, and count 
their achievements. Begin with the first — the lord 
of them all — agriculture. Six thousand years have 
'passed since we were sent to till the ground, from 
which we were taken. How much of it is tilled? 
How much of that which is, wisely or well ? In the 
[34] 



The Mystery of Life 

very centre and chief garden of Europe — where 
the two forms of parent Christianity have had their 
fortresses — where the noble Catholics of the Forest 
Cantons, and the noble Protestants of the Vaudois 
valleys, have maintained, for dateless ages, their 
faiths and liberties — there the unchecked Alpine 
rivers yet run wild in devastation : and the marshes, 
which a few hundred men could redeem with a 
year's labour, still blast their helpless inhabitants 
into fevered idiotism. That is so, in the centre 
of Europe ! While, on the near coast of Africa, 
once the Garden of the Hesperides, an Arab 
woman, but a few sunsets since, ate her child, for 
famine. And, with all the treasures of the East 
at our feet, we, in our own dominion, could not find 
a few grains of rice, for a people that asked of us 
no more; but stood by, and saw five hundred thou- 
sand of them perish of hunger. 

Then, after agriculture, the art of kings, take 
the next head of human arts — weaving; the art of 
queens, honoured of all noble heathen women, in 
the person of their virgin goddess — honoured of all 
Hebrew women, by the word of their wisest king — 
"She layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands 
hold the distaff; she stretcheth out her hand to the 
poor. She is not afraid of the snow for her house- 
hold, for all her household are clothed with scarlet. 
She maketh herself covering of tapestry, her cloth- 
ing is silk and purple. She maketh fine linen, and 
selleth it, and delivereth girdles to the merchant." 
What have we done in all these thousands of 
years with this bright art of Greek maid and Chris- 
tian matron? Six thousand years of weaving, and 
have we learned to weave ? Might not every naked 
[35] 



The Mystery of Life 

wall have been purple with tapestry, and every 
feeble breast fenced with sweet colours from the 
cold? What have we done? Our fingers are too 
few, it seems, to twist together some poor covering 
for our bodies. We set our streams to work for us, 
and choke the air with fire, to turn our spinning- 
wheels — and, — are we yet clothed? Are not the 
streets of the capitals of Europe foul with the sale 
of cast clouts and rotten rags? Is not the beauty 
of your sweet children left in wretchedness of dis- 
grace, while, with better honour, nature clothes the 
brood of the bird in its nest, and the suckling of the 
wolf in her den ? And does not every winter's snow 
robe what you have not robed, and shroud what you 
have not shrouded ; and every winter's wind bear up 
to heaven its wasted souls, to witness against you 
hereafter, by the voice of their Christ, — "I was 
naked, and ye clothed me not?" 

Lastly — take the Art of Building — the strongest 
— proudest — most orderly — most enduring of the 
arts of man, that, of which the produce is in the 
surest manner accumulative, and need not perish, 
or be replaced; but if once well done, will stand 
more strongly than the unbalanced rocks — more 
prevalently than the crumbling hills. The art 
which is associated with all civic pride and sacred 
principle; with which men record their power — 
satisfy their enthusiasm — make sure their de- 
fence — define and make dear their habitation. 
And, in six thousand years of building, what have 
we done? Of the greater part of all that skill 
and strength, no vestige is left, but fallen stones, 
that encumber the fields and impede the streams. 
But, from this waste of disorder, and of time, and 

[«6] 



The Mystery of Life 

of rage, what is left to us? Constructive and pro- 
gressive creatures that we are, with ruling brains, 
and forming hands, capable of fellowship, and 
thirsting for fame, can we not contend, in comfort, 
with the insects of the forest, or, in achievement, 
with the worm of the sea ? The white surf rages in 
vain against the ramparts built by poor atoms of 
scarcely nascent life; but only ridges of formless 
ruin mark the places where once dwelt our noblest 
multitudes. The ant and the moth have cells for 
each of their young, but our little ones lie in fester- 
ing heaps, in homes that consume them like graves ; 
and night by night, from the corners of our streets, 
rises up the cry of the homeless — "I was a stranger, 
and ye took me not in." 

Must it be always thus? Is our life for ever to 
be without profit — without possession? Shall the 
strength of its generations be as barren as death; 
or cast away their labour, as the wild fig tree casts 
her untimely figs ? Is it all a dream then — the de- 
sire of the eyes and the pride of life — or, if it be, 
might we not live in nobler dream than this ? The 
poets and prophets, the wise men, and the scribes, 
though they have told us nothing about a life to 
come, have told us much about the life that is now. 
They have had — they also, — their dreams, and we 
have laughed at them. They have dreamed of 
mercy, and of justice; they have dreamed of peace 
and good- will; they have dreamed of labour undis- 
appointed, and of rest undisturbed; they have 
dreamed of fulness in harvest, and overflowing in 
store ; they have dreamed of wisdom in council, and 
of providence in law; of gladness of parents, and 
strength of children, and glory of grey hairs. And 

[37] 



The Mystery of Life 

at these visions of theirs we have mocked,, and held 
them for idle and vain, unreal and unaccomplish- 
able. What have we accomplished with our reali- 
ties ? Is this what has come of our worldly wisdom, 
tried against their folly? this our mightiest pos- 
sible, against their impotent ideal ? or have we only 
wandered among the spectra of a baser felicity, 
and chased phantoms of the tombs, instead of 
visions of the Almighty; and walked after the im- 
aginations of our evil hearts, instead of after the 
counsels of Eternity, until our lives — not in the 
likeness of the cloud of heaven, but of the smoke 
of hell — have become "as a vapour, that appeareth 
for a little time, and then vanisheth away?" 

Does it vanish then? Are you sure of that? — 
sure, that the nothingness of the grave will be a 
rest from this troubled nothingness; and that the 
coiling shadow, which disquiets itself in vain, can- 
not change into the smoke of the torment that 
ascends for ever? Will any answer that they are 
sure of it, and that there is no fear, nor hope, nor 
desire, nor labour, whither they go ? Be it so ; will 
you not, then, make as sure of the Life, that now is, 
as you are of the Death that is to come? Your 
hearts are wholly in this world — will you not give 
them to it wisely, as well as perfectly? And see, 
first of all, that you have hearts, and sound hearts, 
too, to give. Because you have no heaven to look 
for, is that any reason that you should remain 
ignorant of this wonderful and infinite earth, which 
is firmly and instantly given you in possession? 
Although your days are numbered, and the follow- 
ing darkness sure, is it necessary that you should 
share the degradation of the brute, because you are 
[38] 



The Mystery of Life 

condemned to its mortality; or live the life of the 
moth, and of the worm, because you are to com- 
panion them in the dust? Not so; we may have 
but a few thousands of days to spend, perhaps hun- 
dreds only — perhaps tens; nay, the longest of our 
time and best, looked back on, will be but as a 
moment, as the twinkling of an eye; still, we are 
men, not insects; we are living spirits, not passing 
clouds. "He maketh the winds His messengers; 
the momentary fire, His minister;" and shall we 
do less than these? Let us do the work of men 
while we bear the form of them; and, as we snatch 
our narrow portion of time out of Eternity, snatch 
also our narrow inheritance of passion out of Im- 
mortality — even though our lives be as a vapour, 
that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth 
away. 

But there are some of you who believe not this — 
who think this cloud of life has no such close — that 
it is to float, revealed and illumined, upon the floor 
of heaven, in the day when He cometh with clouds, 
and every eye shall see Him. Some day, you be- 
lieve, within these five, or ten, or twenty years, for 
every one of us the judgment will be set, and the 
books opened. If that be true, far more than that 
must be true. Is there but one day of judgment? 
Why, for us every day is a day of judgment — every 
day is a Dies Ira?, and writes its irrevocable verdict 
in the flame of its West. Think you that judgment 
waits till the doors of the grave are opened? It 
waits at the doors of your houses — it waits at the 
corners of your streets; we are in the midst of 
judgment — the insects that we crush are our 
judges — the moments that we fret away are our 

[39] 



The Mystery of Life 

judges — the elements that feed us, judge, as they 
minister — and the pleasures that deceive us, judge 
as they indulge. Let us, for our lives, do the work 
of Men while we bear the Form of them, if indeed 
those lives are Not as a vapour, and do Not vanish 
away. 

"The work of men" — and what is that? Well, 
we may any of us know very quickly, on the con- 
dition of being wholly ready to do it. But many 
of us are for the most part thinking, not of what 
we are to do, but of what we are to get; and the 
best of us are sunk into the sin of Ananias, and it 
is a mortal one — we want to keep back part of the 
price; and we continually talk of taking up our 
cross, as if the only harm in a cross was the weight 
of it — as if it was only a thing to be carried, in- 
stead of to be — crucified upon. "They that are His 
have crucified the flesh, with the affections and 
lusts." Does that mean, think you, that in time of 
national distress, of religious trial, of crisis for 
every interest and hope of humanity — none of us 
will cease jesting, none cease idling, none put them- 
selves to any wholesome work, none take so much 
as a tag of lace off their footmen's coats, to save 
the world? Or does it rather mean, that they are 
ready to leave houses, lands, and kindreds — yes, 
and life, if need be ? Life ! — some of us are ready 
enough to throw that away, joyless as we have 
made it. But "station in Life" — how many of us 
are ready to quit that? Is it not always the great 
objection, where there is question of finding some- 
thing useful to do — "We cannot leave our stations 
in Life?" 

Those of us who really cannot — that is to say, 

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The Mystery of Life 

who can only maintain themselves by continuing in 
some business or salaried office, have already some- 
thing to do; and all that they have to see to, is 
that they do it honestly and with all their might. 
But with most people who use that apology, "re- 
maining in the station of life to which Providence 
has called them," means keeping all the carriages, 
and all the footmen and large houses they can pos- 
sibly pay for; and, once for all, I say that if ever 
Providence did put them into stations of that sort 
— which is not at all a matter of certainty — Provi- 
dence is just now very distinctly calling them out 
again. Levi's station in life was the receipt of 
custom; and Peter's, the shore of Galilee; and 
Paul's, the antechambers of the High Priest, — 
which "station in life" each had to leave, with brief 
notice. 

And, whatever our station in life may be, at this 
crisis, those of us who mean to fulfil our duty 
ought, first, to live on as little as we can; and, 
secondly, to do all the wholesome work for it we 
can, and to spend all we can spare in doing all the 
sure good we can. 

And sure good is first in feeding people, then in 
dressing people, then in lodging people, and lastly 
in rightly pleasing people, with arts, or sciences, 
or any other subject of thought. 

I say first in feeding; and, once for all, do not 
let yourselves be deceived by any of the common 
talk of "indiscriminate charity." The order 
to us is not to feed the deserving hungry, nor 
the industrious hungry, nor the amiable and well- 
intentioned hungry, but simply to feed the hun- 
gry. It is quite true, infallibly true, that if any 
[41] 



The Mystery of Life 

man will not work, neither should he eat — think of 
that, and every time you sit down to your dinner, 
ladies and gentlemen, say solemnly, before you ask 
a blessing, "How much work have I done to-day 
for my dinner?" But the proper way to enforce 
that order on those below you, as well as on your- 
selves, is not to leave vagabonds and honest people 
to starve together, but very distinctly to discern 
and seize your vagabond; and shut your vagabond 
up out of honest people's way, and very sternly 
then see that, until he has worked, he does not eat. 
But the first thing is to be sure you have the food 
to give; and, therefore, to enforce the organisation 
of vast activities in agriculture and in commerce, 
for the production of the wholesomest food, and 
proper storing and distribution of it, so that no 
famine shall any more be possible among civilised 
beings. There is plenty of work in this business 
alone, and at once, for any number of people who 
like to engage in it. 

Secondly, dressing people — that is to say, urging 
every one within reach of your influence to be al- 
ways neat and clean, and giving them means of 
being so. In so far as they absolutely refuse, you 
must give up the effort with respect to them, only 
taking care that no children within your sphere of 
influence shall any more be brought up with such 
habits; and that every person who is willing to 
dress with propriety shall have encouragement to 
do so. And the first absolutely necessary step 
towards this is the gradual adoption of a consistent 
dress for different ranks of persons, so that their 
rank shall be known by their dress ; and the restric- 
tion of the changes of fashion within certain limits. 

[42] 



The Mystery of Life 

All which appears for the present quite impossible ; 
but it is only so far as even difficult as it is difficult 
to conquer our vanity, frivolity, and desire to ap- 
pear what we are not. And it is not, nor ever shall 
be, creed of mine, that these mean and shallow vices 
are unconquerable by Christian women. 

And then, thirdly, lodging people, which you 
may think should have been put first, but I put 
it third, because we must feed and clothe people 
where we find them, and lodge them afterwards. 
And providing lodgment for them means a great 
deal of vigorous legislation, and cutting down of 
vested interests that stand in the way, and after 
that, or before that, so far as we can get it, thor- 
ough sanitary and remedial action in the houses 
that we have; and then the building of more, 
strongly, beautifully, and in groups of limited ex- 
tent, kept in proportion to their streams, and 
walled round, so that there may be no festering 
and wretched suburb anywhere, but clean and busy 
street within, and the open country without, with 
a belt of beautiful garden and orchard round the 
walls, so that from any part of the city perfectly 
fresh air and grass, and sight of far horizon might 
be reachable in a few minutes' walk. This is the 
final aim; but in immediate action every minor and 
possible good to be instantly done, when, and as, 
we can; roofs mended that have holes in them — 
fences patched that have gaps in them — walls but- 
tressed that totter — and floors propped that shake; 
cleanliness and order enforced with our own hands 
and eyes, till we are breathless, every day. And 
all the fine arts will healthily follow. I myself 
have washed a flight of stone stairs all down, with 
[43] 



The Mystery of Life 

bucket and broom, in a Savoy inn, where they 
hadn't washed their stairs since they first went up 
them; and I never made a better sketch than that 
afternoon. 

Theses then, are the three first needs of civilised 
life; and the law for every Christian man and 
woman is, that they shall be in direct service 
towards one of these three needs, as far as is con- 
sistent with their own special occupation, and if 
they have no special business, then wholly in one 
of these services. And out of such exertion in plain 
duty all other good will come; for in this direct 
contention with material evil, you will find out the 
real nature of all evil; you will discern by the 
various kinds of resistance, what is really the fault 
and main antagonism to good; also you will find 
the most unexpected helps and profound lessons 
given, and truths will come less down to us which 
the speculation of all our lives would never have 
raised us up to. You will find nearly every edu- 
cational problem solved, as soon as you truly want 
to do something; everybody will become of use in 
their own fittest way, and will learn what is best for 
them to know in that use. Competitive examination 
will then, and not till then, be wholesome, because 
it will be daily, and calm, and in practice; and on 
these familiar arts, and minute, but certain and 
serviceable knowledges, will be surely edified and 
sustained the greater arts and splendid theoretical 
sciences. 

But much more than this. On such holy and 
simple practice will be founded, indeed, at last, 
an infallible religion. The greatest of all the mys- 
teries of life, and the most terrible, is the corrup- 
[44] 



The Mystery of Life 

tion of even the sincerest religion, which is not 
daily founded on rational, effective, humble, and 
helpful action. Helpful action, observe! for there 
is just one law, which obeyed, keeps all religions 
pure — forgotten, makes them all false. Whenever in 
any religious faith, dark or bright, we allow our 
minds to dwell upon the points in which we differ 
from other people, we are wrong, and in the devil's 
power. That is the essence of the Pharisee's 
thanksgiving — "Lord, I thank thee that I am not 
as other men are." At every moment of our lives 
we should be trying to find out, not in what we 
differ with other people, but in what we agree with 
them; and the moment we find we can agree as 
to anything that should be done, kind or good, 
(and who but fools couldn't?) then do it; push at 
it together; you can't quarrel in a side-by-side 
push; but the moment that even the best men stop 
pushing, and begin talking, they mistake their 
pugnacity for piety, and it's all over. I will not 
speak of the crimes which in past times have been 
committed in the name of Christ, nor of the follies 
which are at this hour held to be consistent with 
obedience to Him: but I will speak of the morbid 
corruption and waste of vital power in religious 
sentiment, by which the pure strength of that 
which should be the guiding soul of every nation, 
the splendour of its youthful manhood, and spotless 
light of its maidenhood, is averted or cast away. 
You may see continually girls who have never been 
taught to do a single useful thing thoroughly; who 
cannot sew, who cannot cook, who cannot cast an 
account, nor prepare a medicine, whose whole life 
has been passed either in play or in pride ; you will 
[45] 



The Mystery of Life 

find girls like these when they are earnest-hearted, 
cast all their innate passion of religious spirit, 
which was meant by God to support them through 
the irksomeness of daily toil, into grievous and 
vain meditation over the meaning of the great 
Book, of which no syllable was ever yet to be un- 
derstood but through a deed; all the instinctive 
wisdom and mercy of their womanhood made vain, 
and the glory of their pure consciences warped into 
fruitless agony concerning questions which the 
laws of common serviceable life would have either 
solved for them in an instant, or kept out of their 
way. Give such a girl any true work that will 
make her active in the dawn, and weary at night, 
with the consciousness that her fellow-creatures 
have indeed been the better for her day, and the 
powerless sorrow of her enthusiasm will transform 
itself into a majesty of radiant and beneficent 
peace. 

So with our youths. We once taught them to 
make Latin verses, and called them educated; now 
we teach them to leap and to row, to hit a ball 
with a bat, and call them educated. Can they 
plough, can they sow, can they plant at the right 
time, or build with a steady hand? Is it the effort 
of their lives to be chaste, knightly, faithful, holy 
in thought, lovely in word and deed? Indeed it is, 
with some, nay with many, and the strength of 
England is in them, and the hope; but we have to 
turn their courage from the toil of war to the toil 
of mercy ; and their intellect from dispute of words 
to discernment of things; and their knighthood 
from the errantry of adventure to the state and 
fidelity of a kingly power. And then, indeed, shall 

[46] 



The Mystery of Life 

abide, for thein, and for us an incorruptible felic- 
ity, and an infallible religion; shall abide for us 
Faith, no more to be assailed by temptation, no 
more to be defended by wrath and by fear; — shall 
abide with us Hope, no more to be quenched by 
the years that overwhelm, or made ashamed by the 
shadows that betray; shall abide for us, and with 
us, the greatest of these ; the abiding will, the abid- 
ing name, of our Father. For the greatest of these^ 
is Charity. 



[47] 



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